Oh, Rapturous Day
by shooting-stetsons
Summary: Greg Lestrade is possibly having the worst day in all of creation. Rated solely for language.


He should have known it was going to be a crap day the moment he woke up with a migraine. It wasn't the worst Greg had ever had, but enough to distract him into almost sticking the wrong end of his toothbrush into his mouth and put hand soap on the bristles. He took two paracetamol and waited until it took the edge off before trying to get dressed.

Two pairs of his socks had holes in one of them. Which wouldn't have been a problem - seeing as he could just put the two oddballs together and make a pair - if the socks had been the same color. He sighed heavily and found a third pair that were thankfully intact before heading to the kitchen to make a quick breakfast.

The toaster caught on fire while he was pouring his juice. Then he threw the juice on the toaster in a panic and only made it worse because it was an electrical fire. Shouting and swearing, it took what felt like an hour of haphazardly throwing things out of the cabinets to get to the flour and shake it over the fire. It slowly smothered itself and he let out an agonized sigh. Days like this weren't meant to be spent at work, but he was out of vacation days and had never been able to fake sick with a clear conscience. Opting out on breakfast entirely, he locked the door to his flat and made for the Tube.

He missed his train, naturally, and had to wait twenty minutes before another showed up, making him very significantly late. Standing in the draughty tunnels, he's jostled by irritated mothers and sticky, screaming children and then he gets a text reminding him _Its Sgt. Donovan's b-day. Ur bringing the cake rite?_ Oh, god, he was supposed to buy a cake. And Anderson's txt-talk made him want to vomit. He shuffled as quickly as he could to the bakery and bought the first Happy Birthday cake he saw displayed.

Only to find out halfway to work that the box's picture was different from the _Congratulations on the New Baby!_ cake he'd just purchased. His headache was threatening to come back, but he took a deep breath and used the edge of the box to scrape off the words and leave the frosting roses in the corners. Hopefully Sally would understand.

The frosting-coated piece of cardboard flew out of his hand and hit a poor old woman in the head, pulling off her wig and sending it flying to the floor. Luckily it was his stop and he leaped off the train before the old woman saw him. Carefully keeping the cake box balanced, he made it to work with little fanfare.

Sally was crying at her desk when he arrived, and Anderson was sulking on the other side of the floor with a group of harassed-looking male Sergeants and Constables around him. The first thing Greg did was storm to Anderson and demand, "_What_ did you _do?_"

"How was I supposed to know she's afraid of ferris wheels?" replied the frantic forensics officer, gesturing wildly to Sally, who only started crying harder.

"My cousin jumped off the top of the London Eye while I was on with him; I told you that!" she wailed.

Lestrade sighed to himself and set about fixing this the best way he knew how. He sat next to Donovan, placing the cake on her desk, and put an arm around her shoulders. "Sal, he's an arse, but he meant well. Do you want to have some alone time in my office, or d'you just want the day?"

Wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, Donovan stared down at the surface of her desk. "I haven't got any vacation days left," she sniffed, "and I have so much work to do..."

"I'll take care of it," insisted Lestrade comfortingly. "You go on home, take some cake with you, and have a lovely birthday, alright? Make sure you call when you get there so I don't worry like an old lady."

With a watery smile and a, "Thank you, sir," Sally gathered her things and a generous piece of cake and left. Greg took the files from her inbox, left the cake on her desk for the team to help themselves, and retreated to his office for a long day of work. At least it seemed like a quiet day so far.

He was called to a crime scene ten minutes later, a gory closed-room murder with no clues to be had even after combing the scene for three hours. With reluctance churning in his gut, Greg called in Holmes, hoping for a nudge in the right direction. The great hawky prat solved it in twenty minutes _and_ apprehended the murderer, insulting Greg's intelligence the whole way until he felt about two inches tall.

All he wanted was a drink, for Pete's sake. Watson wasn't even there to keep his stringy boyfriend in check, apparently he had the flu or something. At least the doctor was usually kind enough to buy him a pint when the consulting detective got stroppy with him. Still, the day was at least progressing well, and now all he had was paperwork to finish and he'd be home free.

Until Constable Warren knocked his coffee over two and a half days' worth of paperwork. Now, probably any other DI on the force would have popped a blood vessel and forced the young Constable to do all the work over again twice. But Greg wasn't that kind of boss. He pulled a chair up to the other side of his desk and had Warren sit and help him fill out half of the paperwork before letting him go back to his work.

It wasn't until around mid-afternoon that Greg realized that he hadn't eaten all day, really only puzzling it out because the half of his coffee that hadn't been spilled was giving him some serious heartburn and a good case of the caffeine-shakes. The headache that had been gently probing the back of his consciousness all morning came reeling back, and he guzzled down two more paracetamol before venturing out into the floor to grab a slice of cake, which would tide him over until he got home.

So, naturally, the cake was gone. Anderson was taking the last piece and returning to his desk just as Greg stepped out of his office. He and the forensic officer met eyes, Anderson blushed and grimaced with embarrassment, and Greg simply retreated to his office.

It was reaching the point where he just wanted to curl up under his desk and cry. _Nothing_ was going right, and the only thing keeping Greg from a mental breakdown was the prospect of getting out of here and right to the pub for a drink with the lads from his pickup rugby team. Only a few more hours of paperwork and he was finished; he just had to fill them out and fax them to a station up north.

Three pens were out of ink and his stapler was malfunctioning. The paper kept getting caught up in it, the staples stuck halfway through, and he ended up tearing half of his documents. At least that wouldn't matter once he'd faxed them.

"Anyone know how to work this bloody thing?" he shouted halfway across the floor as the copy machine blinked docilely up at him but didn't fax.

Constable Gordon leaned around the corner to see what his problem was. "Oh, just give it a bang or two, sir; it'll work again in no time," he grinned, throwing in a thumbs-up before disappearing back to his desk. Frowning thoughtfully, Greg gave the blasted machine a sharp rap to the lid, and smiled to himself when it started whirring and clicking to warm up. He looked at the screen and frowned again.

_Sort-hvid eller farve?_ it read.

"Wha...?" He blindly jabbed a button.

_Du er løbe tør for toner._

Eyes wide, Greg hit the machine again.

_Vælg antallet af kopier._

"Oh, Christ, what language is this?"

Like some great avenging angel, Sergeant Heathe came round and peered at the screen over his shoulder. "It speaking Danish again?" she asked sympathetically. "Sometimes you just have to shake it when it does that; let me see." Edging him out of the way, she used her surprising strength to grab the sides of the copier and give it a hearty shake.

It started smoking.

"Away from the machinery, away from the machinery!" he instructed, grabbing Heathe's arm to pull her away and reach for the fire extinguisher. He was not about to deal with two electrical fires in one day.

Just as he reached the extinguisher, fire alarms went off, triggering the sprinklers. There were cries of outrage across the office floor, and young Heathe shrank visibly where she stood. "Oh god, they're going to _hate_ me!" she moaned miserably.

Greg sighed. "No. No, they aren't." He started ushering the constabulary out of the building. "Sorry everyone, sorry, you know how I am with the bloody machinery around here, I'm a disgrace, I know." The officers laughed good-naturedly at him, well aware of how he managed to break down his computer at least twice a month.

Many officers took this as their chance to scarper off for the evening, snatching their things before running out of the building while they thought Greg wasn't looking. But he saw it all as the rain started falling outside as well as in, saw it all and let it happen, because even if he was having a shit day it didn't mean they all had to as well. Once the fire brigade had shown up and hauled the blackened copy machine out of the building they were allowed back in to gather their waterlogged belongings.

When he looked for the folders from Donovan's inbox he found them completely saturated from the sprinklers and let out an agonized groan. Regret hanging heavy in every muscle, he pulled out his mobile and called Sally, hoping against all hope she wouldn't be crying anymore.

"Sir?" she answered, puzzled.

"'Lo, Sally, how's your day?"

"Um, it's fine, sir, thanks."

"Good, good," he murmured, distracted as he leafed through her desk. "Listen, we've had a bit of an incident and I've misplaced your paperwork. Did you have it backed up anywhere in your desk?"

"You're still at the office? I heard the fire alarms went off and everyone went home."

"Most everyone; I'm still around to do cleanup."

She haltingly told him where to find hard copies of the forms she'd had to fill out from their last case, and Greg let her go to enjoy the rest of her evening. He got the hard files from the bottom drawer of her desk and ventured back into his office to see how bad the damage was. His computer seemed alright, faring about as well as the rest of the equipment on the floor, and it only took a bit of paper towel to clean up the puddles on his desk. No better time than the present to get this done, he supposed, and sat down the finally get his work done in peace. Who knew all one had to do for a bit of peace and quiet was start a fire?

He didn't even notice the shadows lengthening over his desk anymore, he was so tired. All he wanted was to finish his work and head home, he didn't even want to go to the pub anymore, he just wanted to go to sleep and end this wretched day.

When his headache returned for probably the fifth time he remembered he'd run out of paracetamol the last round, and it took all he had not to throw himself across his desk and weep. The headache, he'd been able to handle. He'd been able to control that, keep it at bay, but now he'd lost all power over even something as trivial as that, and it was utterly wretched. He scrubbed his face wearily with the heels of his hands, trying to pull himself together for the home stretch, and picked up his pen.

It exploded, dripping ink all over his hand and wrist and desk, but he'd jerked away fast enough at least to avoid getting more than a few drops on his paperwork. That was not, however, enough to keep his frustration at bay.

"_Bloody fucking hell!_" he shouted at the top of his voice, throwing the bloody Biro at the wall and fighting not to throw anything else. He was alone in the office; even the few stragglers who had stayed after the fire had ended their shifts at least an hour ago and waved cheerfully through the glass walls at him as they went on their way. There was no one around to hear him go utterly bonkers over the rubbish day he'd had, so he would go as bonkers as he damn well pleased, thank you very much. "_Bloody - fucking - fuck - fuck - buggery-fucking - FUCK!_"

He slumped back in his chair, exhaustedly rubbing his face, only to remember the wet ink on his hand moments later and muffle an enraged scream with his sticky fingers, blindly kicking the leg of his desk and actually being surprised when it didn't collapse on top of him. It seemed like that kind of day.

When he finally lowered his hands, it was to see the very last person he imagined to return to the office about to knock on his open door, looking timidly concerned.

"Sir?" inquired Sally, taking in the wreckage of his office and, probably more significantly, his face. "Everything okay?"

He sat up, ruffling his hair with his ink-free - or at least less-inky now - hand. "Um...does it look like it?" he asked, not in the mood to bother with pretending. She bit her lip and he tapped his less-inky hand on the desktop. "Sorry. That wasn't nice. Um. Not to offend, but...why are you here?"

She shrugged her shoulders, taking an emboldened step in toward him. "Was texting Anderson, and he told me how everyone was down at the pub together. Then you called, and I figured you were here alone." Moving in close enough to be within arm's reach, she pulled a few tissues from the box on Greg's desk and offered them out to him.

Right. To clean up his face. He took the wad and rubbed off what he could, though much of it had already dried. Sally offered up her compact mirror to help, though it only worsened his mood. She smiled sympathetically and took the tissues from him, pulling a bottle of water from her purse and using it to dampen the tissues.

"So, you just decided to come and put me out of my misery?" he murmured, not moving more than necessary as Sally cleaned his face up. It felt oddly nice, not just the cool sensation of the water on his face, but being taken care of. He hadn't known that feeling in years.

Letting out a little hum of amusement, Donovan used a few more tissues to dry off his face and assessed her handiwork. "Well, I got most of it, and the rest isn't too noticeable. I was having a crap day and you made it better; I figure it would only be proper to return the favor."

"So you ditched on your own birthday to look after me?"

"Wasn't much of a celebration," she shrugged with a crooked smile. "I haven't got any family; you know that. Now come on, the traffic's horrible."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" retorted Greg with a wrinkled nose, and Sally laughed.

She wouldn't tell him where they were going, only wrestled him into his coat, grabbed his arm, and hauled him off. With all the authority of the impressive copper she knew she was - only stopping once to get chips - she led the way down to the riverside, where it smelled a bit like garbage and pollution but the view was nice. They talked about anything but events of the day itself, ranging anywhere from football scores to the motorbike he'd had as a rebellious youth to the last episode of Misfits, until the sun had sunk to the point of giving everything an orangey glow. Then, Sally let out a contented sigh and leaned against him.

It was surprising to feel how pliant and relaxed he'd become in only half an hour or so, and he laced his fingers in with Sergeant Donovan's to try showing his gratitude without breaking the companionable silence.

"So, how old are you now, anyway?" he couldn't help asking when it felt like it had been quiet long enough to warrant the end of their stay by the river.

Sally snorted. "D'you really think that's a proper thing to ask?" At his continued pointed looks she finally sighed and shook her head. "Bloody puppy-face...I was born in 1982."

He quickly did the math in his head. "So you're thirty? You made it! Congratulations!" he gently teased while she rolled her eyes, beginning to understand why she might have been overly sensitive that morning. Hitting landmarks was never easy when one was alone.

"Now you have to tell me how old you are, you know," she argued, pointing a chip at him.

Laughing, he ducked his head, actually embarrassed about his age for probably the first time in forever. "Well, that's not fair! Thirty's not bad; I'm _old_, Sal." At her continued pointed looks he finally sighed and shook his head. "I'm forty-five, okay?"

"That's not so bad," immediately replied Sally in a marginally softer voice.

He shrugged, staring out over the water. "It is when you still want to have kids." There was another brief silence, and he felt his mood starting to flag again.

"Well hey, let's make a deal," bargained Sally. "If I haven't met a decent bloke by my next birthday, you and I have a few, eh?" She grinned and nudged his shoulder playfully with hers.

He snorted. "But you've already _met_ Anderson!"

"Oh, ha ha, very funny. That smirk'll look nice at the bottom of the Thames."

Giggling to one another, he broke the mood again by rubbing his eyes and turning slightly toward her. "No, but, you know, to be honest...it would be my _honor_." He didn't have to specify what he meant. For a moment Sally grinned, but then settled it down into something simpler, more confident.

"Yeah, it would be," she loftily retorted, and he played at trying to push her into the river. They laughed, got up, helped get the grass and leaves off of one another's coats, and took their time walking to the juncture between their respective homes. Greg thought very briefly of kissing her goodnight, but figured that would be inappropriate, that all they'd said by the river was just a few jokes and empty vows between good friends. Instead he hugged her and sent her off, missing the slightly disappointed cant to her smile as they both turned away.

It had been a horrible day, but at least it had punched out on a high note.


End file.
